


This Year

by micehell



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Angst, Drama, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2006-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe this year...</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Year

**Author's Note:**

> So I went to bed at 11:05PM on 12/31/05. I stayed there for just about 45 minutes, until the firecrackers got so frequent that the dog was howling, at which time, for reasons I cannot even begin to comprehend, this came to me. O_O Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

Ten fingers on his hands, all of them perfectly capable of handling the problem, and yet all he could think of were his partner's hands. Ten hundred good reasons why thinking of his partner's hands was a very bad idea, not the least of which was the whole male thing, forget the whole doughboy, square as could be, what the hell was up with those sideburns thing. And apparently ten thousand little niggling reasons why he couldn't stop thinking about his partner. Maybe he ought to just do something about it. What was the worst that could happen? Maybe he would. Maybe this year would be different.

Nine stitches, and it could have been much worse. Maybe Don was right and he was getting too old for this. Maybe a desk wasn't really the hell that he imagined it to be. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? It was exactly the hell he thought it was, but maybe staying whole and healthy was actually worth… naw, no way. Not yet, anyway. And they weren't all as bad as the last one. He was due for a nice long string of easy jobs. And who could say, maybe this time he'd really get it. Maybe this year would be different

Eight 'dates' she'd cancelled, evaded, or claimed to have forgotten before he'd finally got a clue. If only he hadn't gotten the wrong one. She'd just wanted him to see her as she truly was, not as he imagined her to be, but now he basically just wasn't seeing her at all. Well, there was always her mother's choice… definitely not. Or Penfeld… really, just no. Or maybe forgetting about dates, real or otherwise, and concentrating on the work she truly loved… hell yes. This year was so going to be different.

Seven days until he had to go back to work. Seven days to figure out some way to stop thinking about his partner. It was probably just the lack of dates that was making his mind go there, because he wasn't that way, no matter what had happened when he'd been stationed overseas. Really. Because that had just been about the lack of sex, same as this was. Hell, that damn calculator had been getting more action than he had lately… but he didn't want to think about the calculator, or that soft brush of flesh as it changed hands, or about hands, damn it, because that wasn't helping anything, because he wasn't that way, or at least he couldn't be in seven days when he went back, and he could only hope like hell that this year was going to be different.

Six seconds between dropping the rock and the sound of impact. He could figure out how deep the canyon was from that, could then figure out how likely it was that their suspect had gone this way. Not through math, like Eppes did, but through experience. Through years of judging distances, reading signs. But looking around the vast area he was tracking his quarry though, thinking about the wear and tear that climbing through these canyons would take on his, he was almost willing to admit, aging bones, and he wondered if maybe the math could help. If maybe there were better ways of doing his job. Maybe he'd relied purely on his own experience too long; maybe it was time to try some new ones. Standing up, his knee popping loudly in the dry air, he thought maybe he'd try to make this year different.

Five years in college. Getting close to fifteen years on the job. She certainly wasn't a child anymore. She was a mature, competent woman, who was very good at her job. She repeated that to herself as she ran a finger over the photocopy of the picture she had taped to the bottom of her drawer. A copy of the picture from his jacket, smiling happily in just the way his burned body hadn't been. He wasn't the only victim she'd ever seen die, nor the only agent, but, if she had her way, he'd be the last. And like she had every other one of those almost fifteen years, even knowing it was pointless, she prayed that it really would be the last, and that this year would finally be different.

Four cases, and all of them were bad. He'd probably have to ask Charlie for help on at least one of them, and when had he stopped being able to do the job himself. But that was dumb; it wasn't like he worked alone even without Charlie. Did he resent it when Megan figured out something for a case, when David did? Well, actually, yeah, a little. He really should get over this need to do everything himself. It would make things easier at work, with Charlie, with his dad. Hell, it might even get him some action with something besides his own hand, which would definitely be a good thing. Once he got past these cases… no, that's what he always said, and, damn it, this year, really, this year was going to be different.

Three fingers now and he didn't think he was going to last, Charles was so fucking, pardon the expression, tight, and it had been so long. Well, maybe not physically that long, but spiritually, he'd been waiting for this for longer even than social convention would deem necessary. But, he thought, as he pushed deeper in, those long years were over. This year, oh yeah, right there, would most wonderfully be different.

Two sons, thirty and more years, and still no grandchildren. He'd always heard that the newer generation's morals were in the gutter, but did his sons go out and have wild, unprotected sex, giving him grandchildren inadvertently? No, they did not. Nor advertently, either. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to draw them a diagram. He just hoped something would happen soon, before it was too late for him to enjoy, or just too late. He knew they'd regret that if it happened. Oh, well, maybe this year would be different.

One day his mother had been alive and the next day she wasn't. One week his brother had been a friend, visiting home as frequently as the team's schedule would let him, and the next week he'd been a stranger, living thousands of miles away. One month he'd been living with his father, and the next month his father was living with him. One year he'd been chasing someone he could barely talk to outside of math, who could barely talk to him, who traded back and forth with him about who was ignoring who, never quite able to make a real connection, and the next year he was with someone who always had time for him, who frequently talked about things that weren't related to math at all, or at least not the way he talked about them, who was connected to him in myriad ways, and who was babbling the best of non-sense into his ear as he fucked him long, hard, and forgive the pun, fucking thoroughly. Thank god this year was different.

/one year


End file.
